"You heard? Do you speak French?" He came nearer, staring. "I can see that you do. No doubt that talkative maid of yours has related the tale of Veronique's death."
Devon could only nod. She saw the fire dim in his eyes; suddenly he dropped to his knees in the thick, wild grass. "She should have been mine," he choked, emotions squelched for twenty-five years finally pouring out.
"Veronique?" Devon's fear abated. Souchet seemed too distraught to harm her and she bent to hear his answer.
"Oui. Yes. Veronique. I was only eighteen years old when I came here. I was the butler then. The first time the master went to sea, she invited me to her room—the one where you stay. My passion for Veronique ruled my life. When he was at home, I used to think of killing him. I couldn't eat or sleep. Once, while he was away for two months, Veronique became enceinte. He was at sea when the child was born as well, so we were able to juggle the birthdate a bit. He was a fool... but of course, she was bewitching..." His sigh echoed mournfully on the night breeze. "She could not bring herself to break off with Raveneau, though we spent five long years making plans. Eugenie grew older, and by the time she was Louisa's age, I was in agony each time I saw her on the master's knee or heard her call him papa. Finally, I told him that Eugenie was not his child, and when he sent for Veronique, she promised me again that this time she would break off with him. We could all hear them fighting, throwing things, and after a few hours—she said she waited until he was asleep—we met and slipped outside to walk."
The tortured voice trailed away and Souchet looked up to meet Devon's intent gaze as if he had just noticed her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, dazed.
"But... was it you? Did you kill her?"
Souchet ignited like a torch, leaping to his feet. "She brought it on herself! She told me that they made up! I... simply couldn't bear any more." He lapsed back into French, raving about spending over half his life as the faithful servant, the agony of hiding all his emotions. "After Veronique... our daughter was my only reason for living." A vein stood out on Souchet's forehead as his voice rose. "If it were not for you and that bastard in your belly... You probably think you can tell M'sieur Raveneau that Eugenie is Veronique's daughter and that he will turn from her to you." He paused to draw a ragged breath.
Devon didn't wait to find out what he would say or do next. She turned and lifted her skirts to run. She felt damp fingers grasp at her arm. Utterly terrified, more for her innocent baby than for herself, Devon scrambled and stumbled in the night-shrouded underbrush. Somewhere behind, she could hear Souchet coming, and each time her foot caught in a hole or tripped over a rock, she thought he would be upon her. Then, on the winding path leading up the hill to the house, a snarl of vines twisted Devon's skirts and she fell backward, onto rocks and branches. The sound of Souchet's labored breathing, nearing by the moment, forced her to pull herself up. Her belly seemed like dead weight and she felt a long, wrenching cramp when she started back up the hill. No time for worry now. Later...
Somehow she staggered across the grass to the rear door. A cramp tore through her insides again; her legs were wet. Devon began to sob, crumpling on the landing of the servants' stairs. "Elsa! Elsa!" she screamed.
A blond, plaited head appeared, blurring as Devon blinked and lost consciousness.
Chapter 24
***~~~***
May 7, 1782
This day marked a fortnight of life for Mouette Deborah, who was about the same size as the porcelain doll Louisa had brought with her from England. During the first days following her premature birth on the servants' stairs, everyone had waited sadly for her to die, except Devon. She had been groggy and weak as a kitten herself, but she had insisted that Mouette stay in her bed. All through the day and night she had held the swaddled infant close to her body, warming her and loving her. Devon had known that Mouette was meant to live.
And she did. Mother and daughter stayed in the servants' quarters, sharing a room and a lowpost bed that was made up daily with fresh linens. Cook was in heaven and never questioned Devon's refusal to return to the lavish bedchamber two floors above. Once it was evident that Mouette was going to survive, Cook was transformed into a solicitous grandmere, who delighted in every moment she could spend with the tiny raven-haired charmer. The rest of the staff was nearly as doting. Devon let the children gather around the bed when she changed Mouette's diaper or gown, and they cooed and giggled at the baby's wide-eyed, uncoordinated antics.
Devon was completely well now. She had dressed four days after giving birth, and except for her refusal to leave the servants' quarters, she had been engaged in a busy mother's routine ever since. Elsa no longer waited on her; their relationship was that of affectionate friends who helped each other. Mouette had only her mother for a nurse, and if anyone else rocked her or changed her diaper, it was because Devon allowed it.
This day in early May found Devon alone with Mouette in her room, primrose muslin bodice unfastened to allow the baby her noon meal. Devon put out her free hand and ran it lightly over the feathery black hair covering Mouette's perfectly sculpted head. Even at birth it had been just this round, though the rest of her had not been so pretty. For three days she had been unable to coordinate her mouth to nurse; as soon as she managed to get a drop of milk, she would jerk with excitement in another direction.
How far she's come in only two weeks! Devon smiled. Mouette sucked greedily, and had a pink, healthy appearance to prove it. Astonishingly long lashes lay against cheeks that were curved and rosy; a miniature hand rested trustingly on the swell of Devon's breast.
A timid knock sounded at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Me," a child's voice declared after a moment's pause.
"Oh, Louisa! Come in. I missed you yesterday."
The little girl opened the door but stopped after one or two steps.
"Don't be shy, Louisa. This is how babies take nourishment. When Mouette was growing inside me, my breasts were making milk to feed her. She won't need any other food for several months! Isn't it lovely how God planned every detail?"
Devon's relaxed manner put Louisa at ease. "My cat had babies one time," she revealed, coming closer to perch on a ladder-back chair beside the bed. "She had milk inside her, too."
"Yes, that's right. Most animals are the same. What is your cat's name?"
"Duke," Louisa replied innocently. "But I had to give her to my friend Sarah before we went on the ship."
"That's a shame. No doubt you miss her."
Louisa nodded.
"Tell me, how did you happen to choose Duke's name?"
"I named her after Mama's best friend. His name was Duke, and I think Mama wanted it to be her name, too, but I told her Eugenie is lots prettier."
Devon's smile was crooked. "Tell me, sweetheart, how is your mother? I know she must have been very sad about M'sieur Souchet. I hope she's feeling better."
Louisa's hazel-gold eyes clouded. "I told her that he's in heaven, way up on top of the clouds, but she still cries—every hour almost! She tells me to go away."
Mouette had dozed off and Devon gently lifted her to burp, trying to decide what to say to Louisa. She hadn't learned of Souchet's death herself until Mouette was four days old and out of danger. Elsa had blurted out the story then: it seemed that Louisa had risen early the morning after Mouette's birth, and finding Devon's room empty, had gone to look for her outside. Halfway down the hill behind the house, she had discovered the cold, chalky body of Bernard Souchet, sprawled with arms reaching forward. Thinking him asleep, the child had shaken his shoulders until fear had replaced confusion; then she had run to the house, screaming and sobbing. Hermann had heard her and gone back to Souchet. There wasn't a mark on the body, not even a bump to the head. Everyone had agreed the man's heart must have simply stopped.
In spite of her sublime contentment, Devon had dreamed more than once of darkness and terror and raspy, labored breathing that pursued her. She felt no pity for Bernard Souchet; it was a blessing tha
t he hadn't lived, for certainly total madness would have claimed him soon. During the four days when she had thought him still alive, she had worried that he might again attempt to kill her, and Mouette too, but the news of his death did not entirely dispel her concern. Eugenie, in her own way, was just as dangerous.
Mouette's eyes opened drowsily as she emitted a resonant belch, and Louisa giggled.
"She's cute! I wish I had a baby sister or brother."
"You'll have to come back more often, sweetheart. You can help me dress her and rock her. Would you like that?"
Louisa nodded vigorously, her eyes luminous. "I'd love it!"
"Good. I don't see nearly enough of you these days."
"Devon... doesn't Mouette have a papa, either? Is she going to get one like me?"
Louisa's vulnerable, hopeful expression made Devon's heart turn over. At least Mouette had one parent who loved her enough to insure a secure childhood, but this little ginger-haired girl was starved for affection. And Raveneau was not a piece of pie that Devon and Eugenie could divide among themselves and their daughters.
"Well, Mouette does have a papa, but he had to go away."
"Will he come back and take care of Mouette?"
"I don't think so, Louisa. I will have to love her twice as much."
There was another knock at the door. "Fraulein, there is a young man here to see you." Elsa's tone was heavy with meaning, and for a moment Devon shivered with panic, thinking that Raveneau had returned.
Gulping, she lay Mouette along her lap and fumbled at the hooks on her gown.
"All right, Elsa...send in this mysterious visitor!"
A long, heart-pounding minute passed. Devon smoothed her loosely upswept hair, gathered the napping Mouette back into her arms, and smiled nervously at Louisa. What irony! she thought. He will meet both daughters at the same time!
The door opened slowly. Morgan Gadwin stepped in, twisting a tricorn hat in his hands.
"Hello, Devon," he said.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Louisa looked back and forth curiously. "Who are you?"
"Uh... Louisa, this is an old friend of mine from New London. He... we—"
"Are you Morgan?" the little girl pursued. "Devon told Mama and me a long story about you."
This news seemed to bolster Morgan's courage. "Yes, I'm Morgan. I hope it was a nice story." His eyes met Devon's.
"Louisa!" she exclaimed, "Would you mind leaving us alone for a little while? I think I smell cookies baking, and if you ask nicely, Cook is sure to give you one."
The little girl took the hint, said goodbye, and left.
"What are you doing here?" Devon burst out.
Morgan shambled over and took Louisa's chair. "I had second thoughts. And I heard you were unhappy. That was all I needed to know to make me want another chance." His eyes kept flicking curiously to Mouette. "Who is that?"
"My daughter. Mouette."
Morgan's long face registered shock, bewilderment, and finally comprehension. "You don't mean... you... this... his baby?"
Devon nodded.
"B—but that's impossible! Why, it was October barely over six months ago—that we were in Williamsburg! You were going to marry me! You thought you had! I... you must be joking!"
"No, I'm quite serious. Mouette was already begun when we reached Williamsburg, but of course I didn't know. If I had, I would never have spoken of marriage to you."
She felt sorry for Morgan. She knew him well enough to understand how much self-respect he had doubtless lost in Williamsburg, but this was the crowning blow. He sat there, clutching the seat of his chair with white- knuckled hands, and his face clearly showed his hatred for Raveneau.
"I... Devon... I simply cannot believe this! Did he rape you?"
"No." A split-second memory flashed in her mind: Raveneau murmuring that he should not take advantage of her, then her own voice, imploring, "I want you to! I demand it!" In happier times since, they had laughed about that night, but now her mouth could manage only a sad, crooked parody of a smile. "No, he is not to blame. Not at all."
Morgan's face burned as he thought of all the times she had pushed him away—apparently even after she was no longer a virgin!
"I am sorry that you came so far to be disappointed."
"I don't understand—at all. Are you... married to him?"
"No. He left the island before I was aware I carried Mouette."
"And when he returns?"
"I... do not expect to continue my relationship with Andre. He is a hard man; I doubt that he knows how to love. My concern is for Mouette, and I can depend on no one to nurture her but myself. Even if Andre did agree to marry me, I could not bear to go through life knowing that he longed for freedom. I have responsibilities to my baby; I cannot go on chasing and clinging to Andre." She couldn't discuss Louisa and Eugenie with Morgan, and in any event, she was reasonably certain that she would feel the same even if Louisa didn't exist. The pain of involvement with Raveneau was too intense; it wouldn't mix with motherhood.
"I realize that this must be hard for you to accept—my involvement with another man outside marriage, and my baby—but, Morgan, you must face the fact that a great deal has happened since we were children making plans above the Thames. We are both older and have learned some painful truths. I am a woman now, and cruel though it sounds, my love for you simply did not mature. I still love you, but not as a husband or a lover."
He nodded bleakly. A dozen different emotions churned inside him. Devon seemed almost a stranger to him; she was an adult, while he still felt clumsy and cowardly. Before he had gone to war, he had absorbed spirit and courage from her, but his time in the army had brought him face to face with his true spineless self.
Morgan had prolonged recovery from his case of camp fever to avoid the battle at Yorktown, though such malingering had made him despise himself. Other symptoms of weakness had appeared, from overindulgence in spirits to backing down before Andre Raveneau. Raveneau had witnessed Morgan's weaknesses—including the girl Morgan had had in his room—and Morgan hated him for it. In Morgan's mind, he became the victim and Raveneau the ultimate villain. When Hermann Kass had appeared at the drug shop, offering money and advice, he had seemed a messenger from God. Morgan thirsted for revenge and redemption, and despite Devon's speech and her baby, he could see that his dual aims were still within reach.
"Devon... as hard as it is to understand," said Morgan, "I think I do. And maybe you are right. I have been living in the past and I can see now that those times are gone." He licked his lips, searching for the right words. "I can't make you love me—that way—but we do care for each other. I love you and always will, but I can accept it if it is only spiritual."
Devon laid Mouette down on the quilt beside her. If he could truly offer her platonic love, she knew she would accept it happily. At this point in her life, friends were precious; their affection kept her from freezing inside.
"Thank you, Morgan."
He saw her eyes glisten with tears and seized the advantage. "I mean it. Truly. Devon, if I were in trouble, wouldn't you help me?"
"Of course!"
"Well, I want to help you. I have a ketch. It's not much compared with that privateer, but I got it for you. I wanted to show you that our old dreams weren't so idle, and I want to take you away from here. And—" His hesitation went undetected by Devon. "And Mouette, of course. Let me take you back to New London, and later, if your feelings should, ah, grow, we could be married."
"New London! Oh, no, Morgan, I don't think—"
"Devon, Devon! It's not as bad as you think. I want you to discover it for yourself, but you must trust me. My parents are alive and you love them, don't you? I admit, the town is still sad, but we all have to begin again, don't we? And compared with this island—"
Devon begged him to let her think. "If I do say yes, I just want to be certain you remember what you've said. You won't pressure me about marriage, because I don't think—"
"Mouette."
"Yes. She would have a father. You could hold your head up in town."
Devon felt that she could take care of herself and Mouette as well as any man, especially Morgan, but after an hour of solitary thought, she was forced to admit to herself that he was right about society. And for Mouette's sake...
She watched her baby sleep. Tiny, pale blue veins were visible under translucent eyelids, and for all the feminine beauty of Mouette's profile, Devon could see Raveneau as well, especially in the way her infant's lips tightened with determination. Devon knew what Cook would say that expression meant—gas, or worse—but she knew better.
Devon's heart might have won the battle, for she loved Raveneau more than she hated him, but Louisa was an innocent child, and Devon couldn't forget the look of utter longing on her face. After all, she thought, I'll be sparing Mouette and myself a greater amount of pain later on. It will be easier for everyone, including Andre, if I leave now. I need some peace and tranquility.
Morgan was jubilant when she told him her decision. He even forced himself to pick up Mouette.
"What does Mouette mean?" he asked conversationally.
Devon paused for a moment before replying, "Sea gull." Andre would not help shape his daughter's life, she thought, but the essence of his spirit would always be present in her name.
Chapter 25
***~~~***
May 16, 1782
Mouette gurgled happily from her pillow-throne, smiling with each sway and lurch of the ketch. They had been at sea two days now, and within an hour of their departure from the island, the baby had produced her first real smile. Devon had worried that Mouette might be seasick, but soon realized that this was an impossibility, given her parentage. There were times when she felt so sick at heart that only Mouette's happy cooing could alleviate the pain.
Devon lay sideways across the bunk, forming a barrier in case Mouette should topple from her pillow. This cabin was a far cry from Raveneau's on board the Black Eagle, but then the entire craft paled in comparison. It was obvious that Morgan had acquired the ketch for the sole purpose of "rescuing" her, and Devon wondered where he had gotten the money.
Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Page 26
